


Rub some dirt in it

by RobinTrigue



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Gen, Gore, Medical Horror, Playing Doctor, Whump fic sorry lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 19:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20644424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinTrigue/pseuds/RobinTrigue
Summary: Prompt:Bo is the too-cheery staff at the free clinic where Dean rolls up to get his huge lacerations stitched shut when the super glue isn't enough after a particularly rough hardcore match or a bad bar fight.In which Dean goes to the ER after a particularly bad bar fight and is seen by Nurse Practitioner Dallas.





	Rub some dirt in it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sanidine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanidine/gifts).

Dean sat, jiggling his leg every few minutes and then instantly regretting it. Maybe they’d’ve seen him sooner if he hadn’t done such a good job of patching himself up on his own, but he’s a grown man. He wasn’t about to go dripping blood all over a perfectly good emergency room. And you don’t want to get cops asking about shit.

“Mr Rollins?”

Dean looks up. There’s some moon-faced boy who looks far too young to be a doctor.

“Uh, yeah?”

“My name is Bo Dallas! I’m the nurse practitioner who will be treating you today! Please follow me!”

The guy seemed so happy, literally skipping down the hall, that Dean almost felt bad for the stream of profanity he let out as he limped behind. It couldn’t be helped though, his leg was motherfucking killing him. So was his arm, and most of his side. The blood was actually starting to seep through now; but Dean was past the reception desk and could probably swipe some clean scrubs on the way out without too much difficulty. Save himself from getting dirty looks on the walk back.

“What seems to be the problem today, Seth?” Bo asked with a wide smile. Must’ve just transferred over from paediatrics or something. Or the crazy person part of the hospital.

“I uh. Was changing a lightbulb and I fell on some groceries. Beer bottles, mostly,” Dean improvised as Bo drew the curtains around the small wheeled bed. “Uh, there might be some gravel in there too.”

“Great!” Bo said brightly. Dean shuddered as he felt his shirt being lifted out of the way; he always hated the too-cold sensation of gloves on his skin, and the dusty drag of the latex, even from sheer gloves like this guy had on so he still looked human.

“You did a real good job of putting these bandages on,” Bo beamed, after Dean had taken the shirt off himself so the nurse would stop plucking at it. Dean wasn’t sure about the compliment. It was meant to put him at ease, but the truth was that toilet paper and duct tape only sort of worked, did nothing really for the long stretch from his ribs to his thigh that the asphalt had turned to hamburger. And he hadn’t done anything at all for his split lip or whatever was hurting under his hair, and he hadn’t cared about that until it became clear that this doctor wasn’t really in a hurry to move on to the next patient. Instead, Bo Dallas was just sitting there, a hand on each of Dean’s knees, smiling at him.

“Um, should you… I figured the alcohol in the beer’ll sterilise everything, but there is glass in there.” He tried to gesture with the arm that wasn’t fucked up.

“You’re right!” said Bo, beaming like a fucking psychopath. “I’ll take all the bad, dirty things right out of you!”

“Right,” Dean said, trying to remember which fuckin saint this hospital was named after. “Right, yeah, great.”

The tape was lifted off Dean’s body like gauze. He could see the blood spilling out, little rivulets down his side and leg like from a mountain spring. It didn’t hurt. Dallas must’ve slipped him something good without him noticing.

“All of this is very bad!” Bo trilled. “Let’s fix it!”

He took Dean’s hand in his, on the fucked up side, and stretched the arm out until eye level, like real way the fuck close. Then he stuck his tongue out.

“What the fuck?” Dean said. “What the fuck are you – what the fuck – ”

All the muscles in that arm locked up. The only thing Dean could manage was shuffling the rest of his body back, cot creaking under him as he shuffled to escape. The fluorescents were buzzing like mosquitos.

“Don’t you fuckin – ”

But Bo put his tongue on Dean’s wrist and licked, moving his head horizontal until he got all the way up to his elbow. The saliva on Dean’s cut seared like fire. He could feel his jaw locked open.

“Oof! That sure seemed pretty bad! But it’s clean now!” Dallas beamed. There was blood streaked across his upper lip, and the sight of it made Dean feel queasy; more queasy than he’d felt seeing it on Seth’s knuckles a couple hours before. This was - it was _wrong _\--

“Uh oh, but you’re still dirty on the inside!” The fucking nurse smiled at him again and Dean was still frozen. His throat felt like he was yelling but there was no air going in or out. The nurse got some forceps from a paper-lined tray, removing the sterile packaging and -

Dean’s cut hadn’t been deep. It had been deep enough that he’d felt something scrape, like the broken bottle had touched bone, and sort of a nerve had been twinged, but Dean could’ve fucking handled it. He should’ve handled it. Bo Dallas’s long, narrow forceps slid into his forearm an inch, two inches, it felt like it should have been coming out the other side, and when it was in there way too deep he spread the stainless steel arms apart and Dean could see something white; not _bone_, something curved, pale, pulsating, his arms and legs seized violently as the white thing twisted and squirmed -

Dean woke back up feeling ruddy fingers on his head, where blood was gushing warmly down past his ear.

“You passed out!” Bo informed him. “That’s not very nice when I’m trying to help you!”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said. He could speak now. He felt a little more distant from everything, like he was floating. The hospital was the one listed on the insurance card in Seth’s wallet, and it looked exactly the same as every other hospital: beige floor, grey walls, the antiseptic-green curtains everywhere, a strip of electrical instruments on the wall behind his head. It was odd; all of the electrical instruments seemed to have frozen in time. Tiny bulbs were either on or off, and numbers that looked like they should have been counting up or down had all paused. It was also odd that Dean could see all of this, because he was pretty sure Nurse Bo had dug himself under Dean’s scalp, through the cut, holding him in place. Yet he couldn’t seem to see Bo’s face even though their heads were a foot away from each other.

He swallowed. It was difficult. Dean felt like he could sense every muscle in his neck tensing and releasing one at a time just to get the job done. 

“Can I go?”

He hated that his voice sounded like he wanted to cry.

Even though he couldn’t see Bo’s face, Dean could see all the teeth of Bo’s smile. “Soon!” Bo told him. “First we have to get your bad things out!”

“I’ll be fine,” Dean slurred. “It’s just dirt, I’ll be fine...” But his head was being tilted down, and even when Bo released it, he couldn’t move. He was staring at his own fucking chest and belly, still covered in scrapes from where he’d rolled across the asphalt pitted with lacerations, the deep red of a newly-forming bruise. 

Bo’s hand came into view. It was holding a scalpel.

“This won’t hurt a bit!” Bo announced.

It didn’t hurt. It went in, the full depth of the blade, from sternum to belly. Dean couldn’t look away.

He thought about Hell. An ex-girlfriend of his had talked about it a lot. The relationship hadn’t lasted long, for obvious reasons, but he still thought about it from time to time. About God or whatever punishing your sins, eternal damnation… Sometimes he thought Hell might be the same thing as being lonely, or being cold. Sometimes he thought Hell might be what it’s like when a friend doesn’t want to be around you anymore. Most of the time he figured those ideas were self-pitying bullshit, and the Hell he should be worrying about is the one where you do actually get punished for fucking other people’s shit up just because you’re a total fuckup of a person who can’t get his fucking act together. 

Actually, most of the time he didn’t think about Hell at all. To be honest, Dean didn’t think about much. It’s faster to just do shit and not think about it.

But now he thought Hell must be this.

“Open up!” Bo said. And he put his hand inside.

First it was the fingers. Then the wrist. Then past the wrist, all the way in, brushing the bottom of Dean’s ribcage. He could feel it inside him, forcing air from his lungs as they were squeezed to one side. He could feel his guts churning. His whole body was shaking and his eyes were wet.

“Uh-oh! Don’t throw up!” Bo told him.

“Please stop,” Dean whispered. “I’ll be good, I won’t steal -”

“It’s too late for that!” Bo said with a smile.

He was up to the elbow now, still going straight in through Dean’s torso. Dean didn’t know the names of any of the organs anymore, and he didn’t even think these were organs. It felt like something else. He wanted to yell. He wanted it to stop. All of this had gone too far. He wanted to apologise.

“I found it!”

Something twiched, and Dean felt a sudden rush of vacuum when Bo pulled his arm out quickly, and now he did yell out in pain because he could feel a string or a nerve or an artery being pulled out with it; he yelled and yelled and yelled, and he yelled some more when he saw Bo’s hand, covered in angry red juice, holding a dark thread.

“You can make all the noise you like, but medicine needs to be done!” Bo said. He began tugging, pulling the thread hand over hand until the loose end was trailing on the floor. Dean kept yelling, and only managed to stop when he felt something bigger inside. It was filling him up like a balloon, the pressure inside him like a dam about to burst.

Bo stepped back and gave one final tug, as something solid tore its way out of him.

Dean, blinking tears away, looked up. Dangling on the end of the string was a small, corroded piece of metal. It looked almost like the remains of a toy soldier riding a horse, the kind they had in the history museum.

“You’re cured!” Bo announced. He was still smiling, though his hands and face were clean of blood. Dean reached his shaking hands forward - he could move - and found his cuts, though still deep and red, were no longer bleeding either.

“I want to go home,” he whispered.

“Of course you can go home, Seth! We got the bad things out of you! That’s what hospitals do!”

“Thank you,” Dean whispered. He put his shirt back on. He was hiccuping slightly, which caused him to sharply ache in all the injured places, but he didn’t say anything. He wasn’t bleeding. He could walk. The debris from the fight might still be in him or it might not. It didn't matter anymore.

“Seth! Wait!”

He had one hand on the teal curtain, the thin, cheap polyester imprisoning him here, but Dean felt his body halt. Bo put a hand on his chest, ignoring how Dean’s body tensed.

Bo’s hands were still cool.

“A great sticker for a great patient! Have a nice day, Seth!”

He had placed a large, yellow smiley face in the middle of Dean’s shirt.

The bright lights and rush of noise made Dean flinch, but he walked forward, not caring who he bumped into on his way to the doors. He could see the inviting darkness of night past them. Next time he would stay home. Next time he would stay in the gutter. Next time he would - next time he wouldn’t get hurt. He wouldn’t get hurt ever again.


End file.
